Powerless
by Silent-Vociferation
Summary: She had all the elements at her fingertips, the courage of the nine, and a heart of purer gold than a crown. Truthfully, he'd always felt powerless before her.


This was one of the prompts for Fandom February. I had meant to do the others, but as my friend bestowed upon me Dragon Age, I soon became enraptured and lost my inspiration to finish out the month with my Onmund/Dovakhiin fics. But I know there has to be some Onmund fans out there, so I hope you enjoy this fanfic.

The Dovakhiin is left nameless so that you can pretend she's yours. For the most part. My portrayal of the Dovakhiin tends to have magical preferences.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Elder Scrolls series.

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Sometimes he ran out of magicka. That was the price all mages paid. Archers paid the price of running out of arrows, axe wielders and swordsman and carriers of maces dealt with fatigue. Mages ran out of magicka. And, typical of Onmund, the eternal failure in his parents' eyes, always seemed to find his magicka depleted when he truly needed it. When the dragon was about to burn him to a crisp. When the horde of skeletons was soon to take him over.

The Dragonborn always remarked that he had great precision, that he always had her back when she was lost in the battle and didn't notice someone about to attack her from behind. And yet he couldn't help but feel that in battle he was nothing compared to her.

When the dragon was about to burn him to a crisp? She always had a spare potion on her, summoning the magicka necessary to stun the mighty beast with a shock of dual-handed lightning.

When the horde of skeletons was soon to take him over? She Shouted "_fus roh dah_" and with a cascade of bones and loud clattering the horde was nothing more than a jumbled pile on the ground.

"Without her, what would I be?" he asked one day as they parted ways, him to his dorm at the College, her to the Archmage quarters. Even at Winterhold, the place where he had been before she'd known of its existence, she held more power than him.

It was frustrating, because he knew exactly what he would be without her.

Dead. Alone. Useless. Unwanted. He was an outcast in his family, he was an average mage at the College, and he was just another face wherever else he went.

But she was strong and confident, fire passion before the abyss of death, thoughtful wanderer and inquisitive adventure, richest love and a protective spirit. She bore the fate of Skyrim on her back, carried the interest of the people on her shoulders, and held his heart in her hands.

He paled in comparison.

Onmund was powerless without her, powerless compared to her, and powerless to her advances on him. How did one resist the Dragonborn?

No one had to worry about that question except him, because she didn't seem interested in anyone else.

Not that he wanted to resist.

Every night he fell asleep beside her, watching her hands curl into fists in her dreams, he thought about this powerless feeling.

But he had no idea.

One night something woke him. Crying. Shuddering.

He was jolted awake in under a second, glancing around frantically for the source. He did not expect the result.

The Dragonborn was sobbing into her knees, arms wrapped around them, rocking back and forth, shaking, repeatedly murmuring names.

He whispered her name. No response. He whispered it again. Still nothing.

Slowly he pushed himself off the ground and made his way over to her, hesitantly reaching for her with a hand before pausing. Maybe he shouldn't touch her. What was one supposed to do when the hero of Skyrim was breaking down?

Swallowing hard, he decided to go for it, wrapping his arms gently around her shoulders. Her name ghosted over her ears.

"Onmund?" she whispered as the sobbing died down and she glanced over at him.

"Hey," he greeted lightly. "I'm here."

He wondered if that was the right thing to say, as her face went blank and she stared at him in question.

And then something dawned on her, and she was leaning into him, her fingers grasping at his robes, sorrow overtaking her again. Did he imagine her saying 'good'? He couldn't be sure.

She kept crying, thought for how long he couldn't be sure. It was still dark. Morning had not yet come. "Do you…" Onmund didn't finish his question. More silence. More crying.

Her body finally stopped shaking, the crying ended, and he glanced over to see if she was still awake.

She was, eyes still wide, staring off at some unknown point in the distance.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked slowly.

"I…" The Dovakhiin inhaled slowly. "Sometimes I think about it. Everything I've done. How many times I've come so close to losing people I love. Whether or not I should have hurt those people. Did they deserve it, did I pick the right side, did I ruin a family, tear apart a future. Then I think about everything people tell me I'm _supposed to do_. Slay all the dragons, protect Skyrim, mend the divide that the Empire and the Stormcloaks made. What if I can't do it? I think about it all constantly, and then it starts repeating, echoing in my head, higher and lower and over and over and over and _over_ and… I just… break…"

"You aren't broken," Onmund insisted quickly. "Never broken. You're bent out of shape, but you will return. I…" He stopped, realizing what he wanted to say.

"You what?" she asked, sounding eager to hear what he wanted to say.

"I… I promise I will do everything in my power to help you… not that that is saying much. I'm rather powerless," Onmund finally admitted.

"Onmund no."

"It's true. In the end who takes down the dragon? Who protects the city? Who becomes Archmage and Harbinger and saves my life more times than-"

A finger was against his lips. "Onmund, _no_. If you promise to do everything in your power then… then maybe…"

"What do you need?" he asked in a whisper, her head resting against his chest.

She glanced up at him, and something new sparked in her darkening eyes, and even though tears still clung to her cheeks, he suddenly found her stronger than before.

"You."

And she kissed him, rough and passionate and wild.

Onmund would never be as powerful as the Dragonborn on the battlefield. Compared to her with an axe in one hand and fire in the other, he would be powerless.

But with her holding him close, kissing him crazy, he realized that he was actually very powerful.

He had the power to stand beside her and keep her from breaking, he had the power to love her more than anyone else could, and that was more than enough.

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I have now done my part, contributing to the dismal amount of Onmund/Dovakhiin fanfiction. Reviews, critiques, and comments are much appreciated. Thank you very much for reading!

Sivo


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